


Beautifully Healed

by irisqod



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Comfort, Developing Relationship, First Kiss, Hand Jobs, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Reunion, johnlockchallenges gift exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-01
Updated: 2012-12-01
Packaged: 2017-11-20 00:27:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/579288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisqod/pseuds/irisqod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock comes home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beautifully Healed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beautifullyheeled](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=beautifullyheeled).



> For beautifullyheeled for her prompt "genesis/home/chemicals between them" for the johnlockchallenges gift exchange. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy.

John’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He was putting a dressing on a little boy’s forehead so he couldn’t check the text message.

 

“There you go, Bill, four stiches, not too bad. You were very brave, but no more sword fights with your brother, alright?” John smiled and squeezed the boy’s shoulder. He really had been a brave little guy. No tears - he’d just gripped the edge of the exam table and pressed his lips together into a thin line.

 

He turned to the boy’s mother, “Mrs. Everett, you’ll need to keep that dry for a couple of days. Take the dressing off at night and put on a fresh one in the morning. You can wash by blotting it with a damp cloth, but no scrubbing.” He looked back at the boy, “If it hurts, you can put a bag of frozen peas on it.” Bill giggled at the thought of a bag of frozen veg on his head.

 

“Your regular doctor can take the sutures out in ten days.” John handed over a stack of wrapped gauze pads and a roll of paper tape. “I’ll just sign the discharge papers and you can go.” He signed the forms on the boys chart and gave them to Mrs. Everett.

 

John stepped out of the suture room and held the door for Bill and his mum. “Be careful, maybe switch to pillow fights?” Bill’s mum rolled her eyes at John in a ‘Lord-how-I’ve-suffered’ fashion.

 

His mobile buzzed again. He dug in the pocket of his white coat and pulled out his phone, read the text and then had to sit down in the nearest chair.

 

Some one was having him on, joking with him. But this was not funny. If this was a joke, it was a cruel one.

 

_Baker Street. Come at once if convenient – SH_

 

Why, after all this time would someone send him a text like this? The media and the public had had their fun for a few weeks, smearing Sherlock’s name, then they had caught he scent of some other poor sod’s blood in the water and moved on to the next scandal. Why now?

 

Then it dawned on him. No one knew what Sherlock’s first ever text to John had been. John had never told anyone. He put his head between his knees and said, _“Oh, please.”_ He looked back at his phone. There was another text. He opened the file with shaking fingers.

 

It was a photo. A self-portrait taken at an angle that showed more of the background than the person’s face. The familiar brass numbers and door-knocker of 221B were visible in the background. One clear, brilliant blue/green eye with a slightly flawed pupil was in the foreground, as well as the tip of one ear and short-cropped dark hair.

 

The phone dropped from John’s hand. He put his face in his hands and let out one small, shaky sob.

 

John had prayed for a miracle, and in this age of the twin deities of technology and science, it seems that he’d gotten one.

 

Sherlock was home. In London, at 221B where he belonged.

 

John retrieved his phone, got up and tried not to run to the charge desk to sign himself out for the day. Claiming a family emergency he was off. He didn’t even bother to change out of his scrubs.

 

It was the longest cab ride of his life. Getting in and telling the driver “221B Baker Street” felt so surreal it made John feel the tiniest bit hysterical. Memories of the time he had spent in the eye of the storm that was named _Sherlock Holmes_ came rushing in on him and he began to doubt what he was doing.

 

What if it _was_ just a prank? Someone was playing a tasteless joke, trying to be clever. Surely not, he had a picture of Sherlock in front of 221B. It could be no one else. Sherlock’s eyes would always give him away.

 

After what felt like an eternity of meandering through the streets of London, John was finally, well, home. He doesn’t come back to Baker Street except to pay an occasional visit to Mrs. Hudson, but his heart will always call this place home.

 

John paid the driver and stepped out onto the sidewalk. He looked up at the windows of the flat, but didn’t really expect to see Sherlock there. He was probably waiting in 221A with Mrs. Hudson.

 

Except that Sherlock _was_ there, looking down at John from the window. A slow smile spread across his face, nervous delight showing clearly in his eyes.

 

John still had his key to the front door and only then realized he was still in his scrubs and white coat. He’d left his clothes in his locker at the A&E. It didn’t matter, Sherlock opened the door for him. They stood still, each just taking in the sight of the other and not knowing where to start. There was so much they both wanted to say.

 

Instead of speaking, Sherlock reached out his hand for John to take, looking unsure if John would take it or throw a punch. John wasn’t sure himself, really. He had so much to be angry with Sherlock for: leaving him, lying to him, not trusting him. But John couldn’t find it in himself to be angry any more. He’d grieved and raged at Sherlock in his mind and heart for the last three years, and he was tired. All he wanted was his friend back, and now, miraculously, here he was.

 

John took Sherlock’s proffered hand and drew him into an embrace, right there on the sidewalk in front of God, Mr. Chatterjee and everyone passing on the street.  

 

“Oh, God, Sherlock, is this real?” John spoke into the shoulder of Sherlock’s coat. A new coat of course. The one he’d been wearing when he stepped off Bart’s roof had been cleaned and was stored away in John’s closet at his flat.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock squeezed John and then released him, still holding him by the hands. “Come inside.” Sherlock turned and stepped through the front door. Mrs. Hudson was standing inside her own front door, hands clasped over her heart tears shining in her eyes. John smiled at her as they passed by on the way up the stairs.

 

They paused at the door to their old flat and Sherlock put his hand on John’s arm, “Home.” He turned the knob and swung the door open.

 

It was as if they had only just left the flat a few hours ago; everything was still there save for the few items that John had taken with him when he moved out, years ago. There was a sheet covering the sofa and one draped over each of their chairs. The lab equipment was gone. It had been boxed up by Mrs. Hudson and donated to a local school. The place even smelled the same to John – smoke and chemicals and tea. It smelled like home.

 

“I don’t understand.” John was looking around the room like it was an exhibit in a museum. “Its all just the same.”

 

“I had Mycroft keep everything the way we had it.” Sherlock moved his hand to the small of John’s back, gently nudging him through the door. He took off his coat and dropped it over the back of one of the covered chairs. John did the same with his white coat.

 

“Sherlock, I want you to tell me everything, please. You owe me that.” John’s voice cracked a bit. “All of it.”

 

“I will, everything, I promise.” He drew the sheet off of the sofa and dropped it onto the floor in a small flurry of dust.

 

They sat down and Sherlock began to speak, He told John why he needed to die (“I had to protect you”), why he needed to be gone so very long (“Moriarty’s people where everywhere and some were very elusive”). He told John of stowing away on ships and trains, sleeping rough on rooftops and alleyways, stealing food. Sherlock explained that Mycroft helped with funds and the occasional weapon when they were needed. He described the various disguises he’d employed – John would love to see Sherlock in them, particularly the ginger-haired version.

 

John would stop Sherlock’s monologue every so often to ask questions.

 

“Molly knew?” John asked.

 

“She helped me die, yes.” Sherlock replied. “I made her a liar.”

 

“You need to apologize to her, if you haven’t already.”

 

“I did. She slapped me.” Sherlock touched his cheek. He could still feel the sting of Molly’s slender fingers and palm against it.

 

“And Mycroft, of course.”

 

“Of course.” Sherlock nodded.

 

“Did we bury a body that day, or just an expensive, weighted box?” John remembered the weight of the sleek casket on his shoulder. Remembered thinking _I will take care of you this one last time_. “Whom did I pour my heart out to? Leave flowers for?”

 

“Moriarty. He put a gun in his mouth, ensuring I would have to jump to keep you from being shot. Molly helped with that also.” Sherlock could not look at John. He’d been there, he saw John’s face as he carried the casket out of the chapel, his back military straight and his expression a mask of grief. “I’m so sorry,” Sherlock whispered.

 

Then there was the hardest question. John’s mind had already answered it, but he needed to hear it from Sherlock.

 

“How many did you kill?” John asked. They were siting close enough together on the sofa that their knees touched, John turned to look at Sherlock, he wanted to see his eyes when he said the words.

 

“All of them.” Sherlock’s eyes held John’s gaze. “I have so much blood on my hands, John.” He held them out and for a moment John thought he would see crimson streaks on them. They were the same pristine pale hands he remembered. John took one elegant hand and kissed the palm. Sherlock closed his eyes and a tear escaped down his cheek. John brushed it away with his thumb. Sherlock pressed his cheek into John’s warm touch. “It was worth it. To be home, here with you. To have you safe. It was all worth it.” John didn’t release the hand he was holding but he did give it a gentle squeeze as encouragement to continue.

 

“The hardest thing I’ve ever done was watching you look at my body and think I was dead. Having you try to take my pulse. My eyes were open. I could see you.”

 

That memory was an awful one for John. Feeling the dead weight of Sherlock’s arm made him feel like he was going to faint.

 

Sherlock had been speaking for almost three hours straight. His voice had begun to get quiet and a little rough, so John got up to check the cupboards. “There’s no food, but for a wonder there is tea. Cuppa?” A tea kettle was sitting on the worktop; their old chipped and mis-matched dishes were still in the cupboards.

 

“Yes, please.” Sherlock stretched out on the sofa and by the time John came back with the tea, Sherlock was fast asleep, his face relaxed, breathing even and steady. John sat and looked at Sherlock. _Really_ looked at him.

 

The three years of life away from the comforts and familiarity of home showed everywhere on his face and body.

 

Sherlock had been thin to begin with but he was painfully so now; cheekbones more prominent, wrists so thin they looked as if they would break if he were to lift so much as a teacup. His hipbones protruded so far that the front of his trousers was held away from his gaunt belly. Dark smudges were under his eyes, making his face look haunted, even in his sleep. His hair was clipped short, almost as short as John’s, and there was silver beginning to show at his temples. The pale skin of his forehead was lined and there were lines starting around his mouth and at the corners of his eyes. A new scar John didn’t remember was at the place where Sherlock’s earlobe met his neck on the right side. The ring and pinkie finger on his right hand had been broken and poorly set; he would have a boutonniere finger. John hoped it would not interfere with his ability to use his bow.

 

John placed his hand on the sleeping man’s cheek, bent forward and kissed the new wrinkles at the corners of Sherlock’s eyes. Even rail thin was still the most beautiful person John had ever seen.

 

“I’m glad you are home,” he whispered and got up to fetch a blanket to cover Sherlock with. He found one in Sherlock’s room and tucked it around the sleeping man.

 

John picked up his white coat and got the keys out of Sherlock’s coat pocket. He left, there were things he needed to take care of.

 

He went by the hospital where he worked first to put on his regular clothes, get his own keys and arrange for some time off. “I need to take some personal time,” was all he was willing to admit to. People would find out why soon enough.

 

Next he stopped by his flat to pack the rest of his clothes, the few personal items he owned and give notice to his landlord that he was moving out. There wasn’t much to pack; it all fit into one suitcase and a box. Everything he really cared for was waiting for him back at Baker Street.

 

John took a cab back to 221B and dropped off his meager possessions. Sherlock was still sleeping and had flung one arm over his head and dropped one foot to the floor. Mrs. Hudson must have been up to check on them. Sherlock’s shoes were off and resting under the coffee table.

 

John thought that Sherlock slept with the abandon of an exhausted little boy. He walked over to straighten the blanket and brush his hand over Sherlock’s short hair. He missed the curls.

 

Leaving the suitcase and box to unpack later he went to Tesco to get some basic things to re-stock the flat: bread, beans, milk, beer, some more tea, eggs, tomatoes and anything he could remember that Sherlock especially liked to eat, which turned out to be lots of sweets. Soap went in the trolley along with razors, toothpaste and shampoo. Sherlock would no doubt replace al of this with the expensive stuff he preferred, and that was fine, but Sherlock and John needed to wash before that could happen.

 

John returned to the flat just as the sun was setting and he realized he’d not eaten anything since his breakfast and that had been hours ago. His stomach rumbled. He called down to Speedy’s for some sandwiches and opened a bottle of beer to sip while he put away groceries waited for his food.

 

Once the food had arrived and John had tamed his hunger, he set about the task of unpacking his things. The upstairs room was just as he left it, albeit dustier, but serviceable. There were clean sheets neatly folded in one of the cabinets so he made up the single bed. His clothing went into the small wardrobe. The Browning went back into the nightstand drawer. He took his toothbrush back downstairs and grabbed the bag of toiletries he’d purchased earlier and distributed them in the bathroom. Sherlock’s coat went on the hook on the back of Sherlock’s bedroom door.

 

Clean sheets were in Sherlock’s cupboards as well, so John made up his bed. All of Sherlock’s clothes had been packed up and taken away. John didn’t know where they went at the time of Sherlock’s “death” but he now suspected they were stored away somewhere, most likely with Mycroft. All that bespoke tailoring would hang on Sherlock’s thin frame now.

 

Mrs. Hudson must have brought up clean towels while she was here and left them folded on a shelf in the bathroom. John turned on the water in the shower and stripped off his clothes. Stepping under the spray, he allowed himself to break down, finally, and cry. The emotions of the day crashed over him. He sat down on the tile shower floor to avoid simply falling down.

 

Sherlock was here, he was real, he was _alive._ Alive and safe and whole. Broken in some places to be sure, but whole.

 

John wept for the things Sherlock must have seen and done while he was gone. The injuries he’d suffered. _I would have followed you, you know. Helped you._

 He mourned the lost years that they could have been together. _Never leave me again. Don’t shut me out again._

 

Once his personal storm had passed, he finished washing himself and got out of the shower. The water had begun to run cold by the time he was done.

 

Wrapped in nothing but a towel, he stepped into the bedroom to find Sherlock, curled in the bed and looking at him.

 

“I’m sorry, did I wake you?” John stood still, not sure of what he should do.

 

“I heard the water running. I want to sleep in my own bed. I hadn’t meant to fall asleep, we weren’t done talking.” He sat up against the headboard letting the top sheet fall away to reveal his bare chest. John’s doctor’s eyes noted there was some bruising over the ribs and a recently healed laceration running up his left side. His ribs showed in stark relief; John could count them all and see where they connected to his sternum.

 

“I, um, let me go put on something and we can talk some more. Yea?” John clutched at he towel. “I can make more tea and I went out an got some food. If you’re hungry I could – “

 

Sherlock cut him off, saying “John, would you sleep with me tonight?” Sherlock was blushing.

 

“Oh, Sherlock, I’m not, I mean. Jesus, I don’t know what I mean, truth be told.” John was blushing right back.

 

“Share the bed with me, please?” Sherlock held out his hand. “I’m tired of being alone. I’m tired of being always on guard.”

 

“Alright. I understand. Let me get some pants. I will be right back.”

 

John retrieved pyjama bottoms from his suitcase and came back down to Sherlock’s room.

 

Sherlock pulled the sheets down and scooted over to make room for John. They both slid down as Sherlock drew the sheet and then the duvet over them. Both of them were flat on their backs, staring at the ceiling. There was a stain there that looked to John like a bird’s wing.

 

“You planned on coming back the whole time, didn’t you?” John spoke into the silence of the room.

 

“Yes, of course. This is my home, here with you.” Sherlock moved his right hand over so that it was touching John’s left.

 

John took the hand in his and brought it up to his lips and kissed the crooked fingers. “You broke these, didn’t you?” Sherlock nodded. “You’ll never be able to fully extend your little finger again.” Tears leaked from the corners of John’s eyes. “Will you be able to play your violin with them like that?”

 

Sherlock nodded, “Yes, I should be able”.

 

“I believed I’d never see you again. It hurt so much to watch you fall, Sherlock. To put you in the ground. I wanted to die too, for a while.” He held the hand over his heart. “I grieved for you, every day. But I believed in you too.” He rolled onto his left side to look at Sherlock. “I never stopped. _Never._ ”

 

“I know. I had Mycroft look in after you. To make sure you were alright. He would give me reports, now and then when it was safe to make contact.” Sherlock had rolled so that he and John were face to face.

 

“I learned some things while I was away. I learned that you were right. Friends do protect people. I missed you terribly. More than I thought possible. I would find myself speaking to you for hours only to realize you weren’t there.” He reached over to brush at the fringe on John‘s forehead. “I missed your tea and always nagging me to eat and how you bunch up your fists when you get frustrated with me.”

 

He paused, drew in a deep breath and continued. “I love you, John. More than anyone in my entire damaged, fucked up life. You are as essential to me as air or food or knowledge. You fed me in all the ways a person can be nourished. You make me better. You taught me that feelings are not something to be buried, that they don’t make you weak. I’m in love with you, John.” Sherlock withdrew a bit. “I understand if this is too much or if you don’t feel the same. But please, stay here, with me.”

 

“I will stay. Right here.” John placed his hand on Sherlock’s thin cheek and it was warm. That surprised him a little because Sherlock’s pale skin always gave the appearance of being cold. “By ‘right here’ I mean in this flat, in this _bed_ , with you, Sherlock. But please, promise me something?” John waited for a response.

 

Sherlock said, “Anything, you deserve any promise I can make to you.”

 

“Don’t lie to me again. Don’t shut me out. What ever you think you need to do to protect me, or whatever, just don’t. I’m an adult, I can hear the truth and not fly apart.” John moved his hand to Sherlock’s chin, tipping his face upwards so that they were making solid eye contact and continued, “I learned to live without you, but I can’t do that again. I won’t.” He moved his feet to tangle with Sherlock’s. Again the warm skin was a surprise and a comfort. “Please.”

 

“I promise. John Hamish Watson, I promise.” Sherlock sealed the promise with a kiss – a soft, chaste brush against John’s mouth – and breathed the words onto John’s lips “I. Promise.”

 

John moved and wrapped both his arms around Sherlock’s rail-thin frame, drawing him in close and burying his face in Sherlock’s neck. “Thank you. I’m in love with you too.”

 

This thought rose to the surface of John’s mind and popped like a bubble, the words leaving his mouth without reservation. He supposed the notion had been there, all along, growing since the day he met Sherlock. Articulating the thought made it a real thing.

 

He said it again, “Sherlock, I’m _in love_ with you.” It came out as a reverent whisper.

 

They were both crying now. Tears of relief, happiness and exhaustion. The nightmare was over and they could get on with the business of living, the business of finding themselves again. Fitting their lives back together.

 

Pressed against each other they talked into the night. An intimate exchanging of what their hearts had been carrying for the last three years. Murmured words of loss, hurt and forgiveness. Whispered declarations of love and devotion.

 

John, who until this night, had been steadfastly heterosexual discovered that being in love and attracted to someone was not solely related to the _transport_ , as Sherlock would put it, but had everything to do with the un-seeable, untouchable workings of the person. It didn’t matter in the least that Sherlock was a man. Sherlock was the person who _got_ John; understood John and challenged him. Sherlock said that John was essential to him. The same could be said by John, about Sherlock. They worked better together. Each one filling in the spaces that were missing or broken in the other.

 

Words dissolved and gave way to them discovering each other in a new, physical way. Hands roamed over skin, fingers caressing and coaxing out gasps of pleasure. Lips breathing kisses onto flushed skin, the dip of a tongue into a mouth that was sweet like honey and tannic like tea.

 

“John, you taste wonderful,” Sherlock’s voice was a low rumble in the room. He pressed his mouth to John’s again, open and hungry, humming into the kiss. John could feel the vibration of it in chest as well as his mouth.

 

John rolled himself onto Sherlock and nuzzled into the soft spot under his right ear. Kissed the new scar there. He never wanted to know how it came to be, it didn’t matter. Sherlock was here, warm and alive, under his hands.

 

He said, “Is this alright? Tell me what you like.”

 

Sherlock closed his eyes, answering, “I’m not sure. I’ve never done anything more than this with any one. I never wanted to until you. I trust you. Show me?”

 

“I’m your first?” John felt a huge responsibility. “We will go slow, do this first.” He reached down between them and lined up their equally hard cocks, pressed himself into Sherlock and rocked.

 

“Ahh…” Sherlock sighed and shifted his hips a bit, rubbing himself against John’s erection. “That feels, feels…” He drifted off.

 

“I wish I’d known that this is what would have shut off your mouth years ago.” John was joking, but Sherlock missed it. He was too busy processing the sensations coming from what John was doing to him.

 

“More, I want more.” Sherlock took John’s mouth in another searching kiss - he kissed as if he were starving. He rocked his hips upward into John’s body while pulling him down harder with a hand on either cheek of John’s arse.

 

Sweat had broken out between them, slicking their chests. John nudged Sherlock’s legs apart so that he could settle between them. He kissed Sherlock’s pale, thin chest relishing the taste of salt. John discovered he loved the way Sherlock tasted; it made him want to taste all of him. John knew what _he_ liked, but he didn’t want to overwhelm Sherlock. Not yet, anyway.

 

Tentatively, he moved the band of Sherlock’s pants out of the way. “Is this alright?” Sherlock nodded, looking at John with eyes gone dark with want. John slipped his hand around Sherlock’s penis and gave it a single, slow stroke down and then up. Sherlock groaned, “Johhhn, more. Please.”

 

John moved back up to align their bodies, pushing his pyjama bottoms down and off his legs. He kicked them off the bed and onto the floor. Being nude and aroused in front of Sherlock made John even harder. Sherlock had to be aware of how much this was affecting him. He pushed Sherlock’s pants down and off too, tossing them to join his on the floor.

 

With one hand, he took hold of both of their hard cocks, adjusted his grip and began to stroke them both. “Sherlock, give me your hand. Help me. Show me how you like to be touched.” John was fairly certain that Sherlock had at least masturbated before; he’d gone through puberty, right?

 

Sherlock brought his hand down and laced his fingers with John’s, adding a little more pressure. “Like that, just a little tighter.” He began to move his hand, dragging both their foreskins down and away. The angle was a little awkward so John slid off of Sherlock and stretched out beside him again, leaving their dominant hands free.

 

“Better?” he asked.

 

“Yes, John. This is… better.” Sherlock had wrapped his free arm under John’s neck and was holding on for dear life, pumping his hand faster.

 

“Hey, slow down, yea? This isn’t a race.” John kissed Sherlock to derail his concentrated efforts a bit. “We can go slow, we have time.” John took his hand away and went back to kissing Sherlock, poking his tongue into his mouth and tracing the shape of his lips.

 

“Want me to continue?” John took Sherlock in hand again and waited for an answer.

 

P-please. Yes.” Sherlock stuttered.

 

“Right.” And John began again. Mimicking Sherlock’s pressure but not his pace he soon had the man writhing under his touch. John was happy to grind himself into Sherlock’s hip for now.

 

On he stroked, languidly. Teasingly. Things were getting slicker and John used his thumb to swipe at the fluid building at the opening of Sherlock’s flushed cock. That drew a sharp gasp from Sherlock.

 

“Too much?” John asked but didn’t stop.

 

“No, no.” And he kissed John again. “Can I touch you?”

 

“Of course you can.” John guided Sherlock’s slender hand to his cock and said, “Take it slow, here,” and with that John rocked against Sherlock, effectively driving his cock through the fist curled around it. Sherlock didn’t have to be a genius to pick up on the clue and roll back into John, creating a delicious push/pull friction that made them both moan.

 

Sherlock was fascinated by the heat in his hand; by the soft skin as it slid across the hardened flesh beneath; rigid and yielding at once. He gathered up John’s foreskin and pulled it all the way over the glans, twisting a bit as John pushed back into his hand.

 

“That’s gorgeous, what you just did. Perfect.” John shifted and trailed his tongue down an overly prominent clavicle. “You are too thin, love.”

 

“I’ve had no one to feed me up.” Sherlock smiled and laughed a bit at his own joke.

 

“We’ll take care of that.” John smiled back and rocked into Sherlock again. “Are you doing alright?”

 

“Mmm, yes. Close.” Sherlock’s skin had turned a rosy pink and there was a flush across his chest. The scent of their sweat combined with the smell of sex that had bloomed in the room had his head swimming. Each stroke on his cock sent his nerves fizzing. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest and hear his blood roaring in his ears.

 

John could hardly believe this was happening. His mind was gibbering at him: _God, I’m in bed and naked with Sherlock’s cock in my hand and oh God. Sherlock is stroking me just so and Jesus fuck he was a fast learner oh God. Sherlock is so hard and wet. He’s wet for me_. This was going to be over too soon.

 

They were slotted together, legs twined, arms straining for purchase and just the right grip on sweat-dampened skin.

 

Breathing raggedly, Sherlock locked his eyes with John’s. “Oh! Oh! God, I… I’m. Johhhn.” He sounded helpless. “I’m coming.” And he shattered apart, spilling over John’s hand and his own belly.

 

The look in Sherlock’s eyes sent John spiraling out of control. No one had ever looked at him that way – completely undone and trusting. “Don’t let go of me!” he gasped, swallowed and let go with a growl. He pulsed in Sherlock’s hand, body gone stiff while his orgasm took him. “Sherlock, oh, Sherlock.” He struggled to keep his eyes open, not wanting to break the connection. Sherlock held on.

 

After they had ridden the chemical rush of endorphins they clung to each other, neither wanting to let go.

 

“We should probably clean up, yea?” John ventured.

 

“I don’t want to let you go. I’ve wanted to be able to hold you for so long I don’t want to stop just yet.” Sherlock brought both arms around John and drew him in tightly. “Please stay just a bit longer.”

 

“Alright,” John kissed Sherlock’s throat, nuzzling at it. “When did you know you were in love with me?” John asked.

 

“When you called me a machine that, that… day at Bart’s. It hurt and I finally understood why.” Sherlock hugged John tighter.

 

“I have always regretted that that was practically the last thing I said to you, face-to-face. It was wrong, _I_ was wrong to say those words.”

 

Sherlock shifted, “Never regret the words, John. They were correct and they were what I needed to hear. At that moment I knew I had to follow through with my plan. I knew I was in love with you and I needed to succeed so I could come back and tell you that. I never want to be apart from you, like that, again. I will never, ever put you through that horror again. I am truly, deeply sorry.” He kissed John’s forhead.

 

John spoke, “I think I knew from the beginning. I have always loved you, Sherlock. The ‘ _in love_ ’ part just hit me today. When you were sleeping on the sofa I thought: _Sherlock is home, I’m home and we can help each other get better.’_ ” He took Sherlock’s face in his palms and kissed him, carefully trying to communicate everything his heart felt.

 

Pulling back, Sherlock nestled into John’s embrace and was quiet for a while. John thought he’d fallen asleep, but a soft whisper of “I love you, John,” came from the man in his arms.

 

“I love you too, Sherlock. Always.”

 

John got up after a bit and brought back wet flannels so they could clean themselves up.

 

Nestled back in their bed, Sherlock finally did fall asleep in the circle of John’s arms. He would mutter and occasionally flap a hand at some phantom in a dream, but he slept the night through.

 

John felt the wounded part of his heart close; healed by the presence and love of the man in his arms.

 

Home at last.

 


End file.
